


What's New Pussycat

by canis_m



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animagus, Animal Play, Collars, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Kinktober 2017, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Past Abuse, Praise Kink, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 11:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12770160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: Credence learns the Animagus transformation.  It's all downhill from there.





	What's New Pussycat

"Nicely done," said Graves, with warmth in his voice, to the black cat seated by his feet. "Guess you didn't need any pointers." 

The cat looked up at him with large, luminous eyes. It, or rather he, blinked once, then ducked his head to nudge it softly against Graves' shin. Black hairs plastered themselves to Graves' trouser leg. Graves' mouth pulled to one side.

"I'm not miffed. I'm proud of you. It's not an easy spell to pull off."

Setting aside his glass of whiskey, he reached down to stroke the sleek black head. A purr thrummed. Graves drew back his hand. He draped an arm along the top of the sofa and let his legs stretch, then patted the cushion in invitation. 

After a beat, Credence sprang onto the sofa. He made a fine-looking feline (to no one's surprise): elegant, long-legged, with suggestions of Siamese about the face. His black tail swayed like the pendulum of a happy metronome. The line of his jaw was uncannily familiar. Graves crooked a finger underneath it and scratched the furry chin. 

"Handsome boy," he said.

The yellow eyes slitted in bliss. When minutes of purring passed, and Credence showed no sign of transforming back, Graves withdrew his finger. 

"You're not stuck, are you?"

Credence's eyes opened, then narrowed. He lifted his head and brought his forepaws together with prim dignity. Graves reached for the whiskey glass to hide his grin.

"Just checking. My Transfiguration teacher at Ilvermorny used to tell us stories about a kid who got stuck as a weasel. Cautionary tales. In my case they didn't take." 

One of the black ears flickered. Then Credence crouched, studying the expanse of Graves' outstretched legs. 

Graves watched in amusement. "Looking for a comfy spot?"

He was teasing, mostly, but Credence gave an indelible blink. Slowly, paw by tentative paw, he began to creep onto Graves' lap.

Graves sat still, not quite breathing, as the small, warm weight circled and settled onto his thighs, assuming a small, rounded loaf shape. Like those pumpernickel rounds from Kowalski's. At last Credence stopped moving, and Graves let himself exhale.

It wasn't that having Credence on his lap was new. It wasn't old, mind you, not enough to feel like old hat (though Graves, for all his worldly experience, couldn't figure how it ever would), but the situation had arisen enough times that you'd think he might manage not to get winded when it did. Especially when Credence was technically a cat.

Graves abandoned his whiskey, afraid it might inflame the bubble of lightness rising in his chest. He laid a hand on Credence's furry head, and the purring resumed, fit to rattle the townhouse on its foundations.

*

"Disappointed?" echoed Graves, with a forkful of prime rib halfway to his mouth. "How so?"

"I never thought I'd be a panther, or anything like that," said Credence. His spoon clinked on the edge of his dinner plate. "I just...would've liked to be a bird, I think. To be able to fly."

"You can still fly. That's what brooms are for. Or winged horses." Graves wondered if they were due for another trip to the Hudson Valley, where flying of all forms was more easily done.

"It'd be different, though," said Credence, eyes downcast. "Having your own wings."

"I suppose it would." Leaning in his chair, Graves swiped the napkin over his mouth. "Birds are handy for surveillance. We've got a couple on the force. They're not so great at getting into buildings. Neither are panthers, frankly. A panther in Manhattan?" He shook his head with self-directed rue. "A regular housecat has the run of the city. Long as you're careful about it, you can go wherever you want."

Credence's face began to clear. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Only thing stealthier would be a mouse or a rat, and who wants to turn into vermin?" Graves forbore to mention that they had a couple of those on the force, too. "Anyway. You look handsome as a cat."

"You said that before," murmured Credence, pushing mashed potatoes with his spoon. He seemed to be fighting a smile.

"And I'll say it again."

Credence scooped a heaping bite of the potatoes. "I'm glad I'm not a rat," he said.

*

They were passing a pet shop--not a magical familiar shop; a regular No-Maj affair--when Credence stopped in his tracks, arrested by something in the window. Graves turned and blinked at the rhinestone-studded collar behind the glass. His eyebrows climbed of their own accord.

"Not really your style," he said.

"Not this one. But..." Credence's hand rose to the glass. He stared at the collar intently. "I should have one. If I'm going to go out. As a cat." He spoke slowly, in the same tone he used when working out the principles of a convoluted spell. He didn't quite look at Graves. "So people won't think I'm a stray."

Graves' eyebrows stayed raised, but he said only, "Good idea," and gestured for Credence to precede him through the door.

Inside the shop, Credence ignored the rhinestones. He found a trim collar of patent leather, plain black, with a silvery clasp. Its inner side was padded, soft to the touch. Credence fingered it for a moment, then glanced sidelong at Graves.

Graves plucked it gently from his hand and made for the counter.

There were metal ID tags in various shapes: hearts, stars, doggy bones, the state of New York. Credence chose a plain silver circle, round as the moon.

"And how would you like it engraved?" asked the clerk.

When Credence stood tongue-tied, Graves said to the clerk, "Go ahead and wrap it up."

The shop's bell jingled behind them as they returned to the street. Credence clutched the narrow box to his chest. The hint of a smile ghosted around his mouth.

"Thank you," he said.

"Can't have people thinking you're homeless," said Graves. He felt inflated, puffed with the usual foolish satisfaction of having supplied something Credence wanted, and in danger of succumbing to a strut. Like a damned pigeon. He smoothed his scarf over his lapels and forged ahead. "What do you want on the tag?" An Inscription Charm would do the trick. He could cast it when they got home. "Initials?"

Credence nodded. His cheeks colored, but that might've been the blustery wind. 

"Not mine," he mumbled. "Yours."

*

For all his talk of going out, Credence didn't do much marauding on four paws, at least not as far as Graves could tell. There was a window that opened to the rooftop terrace, and Graves had modified the wards, but more often of an evening he'd find Credence perched by the windows in the sitting room, tail a-twitch, observing sparrows on their commute beyond the glass. Or else he might be curled up by the fireplace--curled at first, and later sprawled in a pose of wilder abandon than he ever displayed when he didn't have fur, even in their shared bed.

They made a joint outing down the street to Gramercy Park proper, where Credence stalked among the hedges, whiskers quivering as if he'd never seen or smelled juniper before. One of the neighborhood ladies caught them at it: a well-to-do witch named Mrs. Byers, out for her afternoon stroll. She smiled slightly at the sight of the cat.

"New familiar, Mr. Graves?" She paused. "Or is that your apprentice?"

Graves turned on the charm. He laid a finger to his lips. "Afraid that's classified, Mrs. B."

"Oh, you and your _classifieds."_ She bent toward Credence, whose ears and tail lifted as he looked up. The set of her mouth grew stern. "No stalking the birds, now. My husband likes to feed them."

Credence blinked, then slunk between Graves' legs and crouched there, sheltered by his coattails, to stare at the witch.

"Not to worry," said Graves. "He's well fed."

He bent, scooped up Credence, and carried him across the park to a more secluded green space, a triangle of lawn where cats could explore unchastened. Credence nestled as they went, paws kneading, and purred against his chest.

*

Graves shouldn't have been taken aback, maybe, the day he came home from work to find Credence--standard version--wearing the collar, transfigured to fit his human neck. But Credence was forever surprising him.

Besides the collar, Credence wore a dark sweater that showed a hint of collarbone, and black trousers and black socks. All quality materials; Graves had seen to that. The silvery tag with its monogrammed _PG_ kept glinting at Credence's throat. Graves had seen to that, too: when he'd cast the spell to inscribe it, he'd put a touch of extra glimmer in. Just a tad. It had seemed a harmless whimsy at the time.

Shedding his jacket and loosening his tie, Graves nodded at the collar. "You want to talk about it?"

Credence shook his head. 

"All right. Later." Graves poured himself two fingers of Firewhiskey--the additional burn seemed called for--and eased onto the sofa, leaving plenty of room. When Credence stood uncertainly, touching the collar's leather edge, Graves took a sip of whiskey and gave him a look.

"In my experience, cats aren't big on orders," he said. "They do what they want. Granted, some are more forward than others." And some were more timid, largely due to lifetimes of poor treatment from humans. So-called humans. Humans unworthy of the term. Relenting, Graves patted the cushion by his side. "C'mere."

With a hurried exhalation Credence padded to the couch and folded onto it. Graves reached to cup his cheek, the line of his jaw, with an appreciative hand.

"My handsome boy," he murmured. Credence's eyes fluttered shut. He looked as if a purr would be welling in his throat, were he in a more conducive shape for purring. Graves rubbed under his chin, just as he did when Credence really was a cat, before his fingers strayed to the glossy black band around Credence's neck. 

"Nice enlargement work on this," he said, observing. He slipped a fingertip between leather and skin, testing the fit. "Looks like it was made to order."

He traced the leather's sleekness lightly with his thumb. Watched Credence's throat work on a swallow, or a false start at one, as Graves touched the side of his neck, where the pulse flickered under skin. 

"Tell you what," Graves said at last. "I'll make a suggestion. You can take it or leave it, as cats do."

Eyes opening, Credence gazed at him, then nodded. Graves gave him a sideways smile.

"You want to sit on my lap?"

Credence let out a breath and nodded again. 

Graves set his Firewhiskey on the table. He let his thighs cant further apart. Credence had an inch on him, vertically speaking, and a pair of legs that seemed to go on for miles--but it was remarkable how compact he could become when he put his mind to it. He put his mind to it now, and curled himself across Graves' lap, with his feet against the arm of the sofa and his tailbone tucked by Graves' inner thigh. 

A sigh escaped him, reedy, as his weight settled. His face nudged into the side of Graves' neck. Graves waited for his shoulders to sink, then laid a hand on his back, over the dark gray sweater, and stroked the long curve of his spine. He wasn't prepared to go much further, not until they'd had a chat, but this much he could do. He laid his mouth against Credence's hair.

"There's my sweetheart," he murmured. "That's my boy."

Credence made a tiny sound, _mh,_ soft in his throat. It might've served as a stand-in for a purr, except it streaked down Graves' spine to parts south in a way that genuine feline purring didn't. Graves supposed he should be grateful for that, and for the fact that Credence hadn't turned up wearing only the collar, and nothing else. It'd be a sight to see, but the heart could only take so much. 

*

"I feel different," Credence said later, as he sat holding the collar between his hands. They were still on the sofa: Credence with legs folded on the cushion, Graves slouching sideways with one arm propped. "When I'm transformed. Like everything that's not here is...not unreal, but distant. Far away." 

Graves knew what he meant. Any Animagus would, and big cats were a lot like small ones. He hadn't spent much time as a panther lately, other than to demonstrate the spell, but he remembered, if dimly, the exhilaration of his first few prowls through the woods of Massachusetts: the heady immediacy of sound and scent. Wind in his whiskers, the imminence of every shift in undergrowth or grass. 

"Like it can't really touch you," he said.

Credence nodded. "I don't think about...things that happened before. Or things that might happen. There's just--here, now." He made a furtive, pale-handed gesture. "I thought maybe I could hold onto that. Even without doing the spell."

"And did you?"

Fiddling with the collar, Credence looked down. "I was afraid you'd think I was being silly. Then I thought, I might as well just transform."

"It's not silly," said Graves. "Not if it does you some good." He eyed Credence, and the diffuse flush that lingered in his face. "That's not all there is to it."

"No. It's--" Credence faltered, then said in a low plaintive rush, "I like being _yours."_

The hairs on the back of Graves' neck stood on end, bristling with primitive thrill. He told his follicles to take it easy, and laid his palm over Credence's wrist. 

"Feeling's mutual. You know that, right?" He gave a careful squeeze. "I like being yours, too."

The furrow on Credence's brow suggested not denial, exactly, but a view too complicated for easy assent. "I'm not sure it's the same."

"What's not the same?"

"It's not just being yours. It's--knowing I'm yours, and you're here, and it's safe and I don't have to figure out what to do, or, or worry about anything."

By the end of this outpouring Credence looked faintly ragged. Graves took both of his hands and clasped them to reassure. 

"All right, I get the gist." It was tough to argue when he wanted those things for Credence, too, by and large. He wanted, selfish as it was, to be the one to give them. "You are safe," he said. "You don't have to worry. I just want you to understand--" He wavered, then laid it out flat. "You're not a pet, Credence. I'm not your owner."

"I wouldn't mind," said Credence, in a voice gone nearly hollow. "As long as I was yours."

The admission surprised Graves not at all. "Not at first, maybe. Sooner or later I think you would. Might take a while, but it'd start to chafe."

Credence looked doubtful, but didn't contest the point. 

"I'm not saying you can't wear this, if you want to wear it." Graves clasped Credence's fingers around the collar, folding them with his own. "If you want to play pussycat, spell or no spell, it's okay by me."

"Just sometimes," mumbled Credence.

"All right, sometimes." Letting go of his hands, Graves sank back against the arm of the sofa. "You want me to behave in any particular way during those times?"

The question gave Credence pause. He considered it, then shook his head minutely. "How you always do."

"So it's all right if I touch you?" A nod. "In a licentious sort of way?" When Credence started blinking rapid-fire, Graves added, "You can say no. You can say yes now, and change your mind later."

The blinking subsided. Credence mustered another nod, wobbly but clear. "If you want. And like you said. You could...suggest things. Maybe I won't do them, if I don't want to. But I probably will." He licked his lips. "Want to." 

Graves wasn't dense; he knew Credence liked to please him. That feeling was mutual, too, if somewhat divergent in mode. 

"'Cause you're my good boy," he murmured, reaching to cup Credence's nape and draw him nearer, close enough that their foreheads almost bumped. He ruffled the curling ends of Credence's hair and watched pleasure suffuse his face. "Not like those other cats. Rascals that shred the curtains and pee on the furniture."

Credence's lips pursed like they were trying not to twist. His eyes went bright and dark, the way they did when his mind tilted to irreverence. "I shredded your furniture once."

"Wasn't your fault. Nasty case of fleas." Graves nodded to the collar where it lay on Credence's lap. "Want me to put it back on you?"

Credence stilled. His mouth opened on a silent _oh,_ and then: "Please."

*

The smell of bisque on the stove wafted to the sitting room, savory and homemade. Lately Credence had been putting the kitchen to better use than Graves ever did. Graves suspected success in Potions lessons had emboldened him, along with tips from the younger Goldstein; he'd done some cooking at the church, he said, but only meager fare. Graves lifted his nose to sniff with appreciation, then sank back lazily onto the sofa. It'd been a late night in the Bronx, busting up another goblin smuggling ring, and for his Sunday afternoon he had in mind a well-earned snooze, at least until the soup was done.

He drifted and dozed for the better part of an hour. When awareness returned, it brought a sense of heavy warmth settling over him: a spread palm, then another, then a full body's weight bearing down, chest to his belly.

Graves made a rough, contented sound. His legs splayed to accommodate, knee drawing up against the back of the couch. He groped with one hand and touched bare skin. 

He cracked one eye open to see Credence wearing the collar, a nightshirt that skimmed the tops of his thighs, and nothing underneath. He'd been less underdressed when Graves last saw him, standing in the kitchen, frowning in concentration with his wand over the pot. Now his dark eyes studied Graves, steady and opaque. His forearms stretched like forelegs over Graves' chest, across the collar of his dressing gown.

Remnants of sleep sloughed from Graves with radical speed. A smile tugged at his mouth. Credence watched him, blinking slow, catlike blinks. 

"Smells fantastic in here," Graves murmured. "Whoever made soup, that was a smart idea. Now we don't have to forage for supper." He touched Credence's jaw, slid his hand behind the curl of his ear. "I bet cats like seafood bisque just fine."

Credence said nothing, but pushed his head into Graves' hand, chin angling for more touch. As requests went, it was damned persuasive. If Graves had harbored any latent qualms about handling him under these circumstances--in a licentious sort of way--they went up in smoke. He spread his palm into the scruff of dark hair and fingered, carding, then coaxed Credence's head lower with a scant stroke of his thumb. His mouth found Credence's ear.

"You hungry?" He spoke the words as if they had nothing to do with dinner. A shiver passed through Credence. He huddled onto Graves, his density seeming to increase. "If you're hungry, we can eat whenever you want."

The fingers on Graves' chest curled like claws. They flexed, kneaded, gnarled the front of his dressing gown with growing zeal. Graves stroked Credence's hair. He smoothed his hand down Credence's backbone, all the way to the base of his spine. When his hand lingered there, just above the gluteal muscles, Credence's hind end bobbed up at the press of it, as if the reflex escaped his control. 

Graves huffed. "Must be a good spot, hm? Right there?" He rubbed below Credence's tailbone, fingering the dip where the buttocks swelled, and Credence's rump rose again. It was more delightful than it had any right to be. Credence hid his face on Graves' shoulder, breath catching. 

"Might have to get you a tail," mused Graves. He'd never investigated the matter, not in any detail, but he'd lay dollars to dragots there was a spell for that. "A nice pussycat tail. How's that sound? Maybe some ears, too."

He went on stroking the spot under Credence's tailbone, teasing with one finger. He didn't press any lower; mere allusion to sodomy was enough to set Credence squirming, breath coming disheveled and fast. If he turned his head, Graves could nuzzle the rim of his earlobe, flick his tongue against the delicate hole. It earned him a full-body shudder. Credence's cock, which had lain between them more or less quietly, made its presence felt in earnest. The feel of it kindled real heat in Graves. He shifted his leg with purpose, and Credence shivered on the next indrawn breath.

Graves nuzzled again. His own caresses were getting sloppy, greedy; he palmed up and down the length of Credence's body, feeling strain in his muscles, their every involuntary flinch. He cupped Credence's hindquarters to coax him up, so their groins aligned to reliably rub. 

Credence made a pleading sound. Whether it was precisely feline, Graves couldn't say--but it was _animal,_ and Graves' gut and loins tightened at the need in it. A need it was his job to sate. 

"Shh," he said, "it's okay. It's okay, I got you. You want to move? You move however you need to." He gripped Credence to urge him into a serviceable rhythm. They slid against each other, Credence with stuttering jerks of his hips. "Come on, that's it."

He kept up the murmurs as Credence ground helplessly-- _come on, baby_ \--as if cats were inclined to come when called. But of course they did when it suited them. When Credence saw fit to let go, it never took long. His head lurched up. His whole body stiffened. He stilled, mouth open, neck straining--the silver tag on his collar threw spangles of light--and then he pitched onto Graves with a shudder.

Graves held him, petting every part of Credence he could reach, slurring praise into his pink-flushed ear. He vanished the wet spots before Credence could cringe from them; getting sticky didn't faze Graves, not for such a good cause, but he knew Credence disliked a mess. A mess of his own making, especially. Having disposed of the evidence, Graves pushed up on one elbow and rolled them, bringing his weight to bear, until Credence lay beneath him, belly down, cheek flat to the sofa's brocade. 

Credence's breath still came quickly, unsteady, open-mouthed. His gaze flickered up and backward to Graves. His fingers curled again like paws. Graves tugged open his dressing gown to free his cock, and cast the charm for slickness with a twist of his hand.

He stared at Credence's bare behind, at the spread of his back below the rucked-up nightshirt. No scars marred it, at least not the visible kind; repeated casting had done away with them, if only by dint of hellbent persistence. Credence had wanted them gone, and Graves had wanted to oblige him. To erase what traces he could. As for the ones he couldn't--

Blood beat in his ears with a force that startled him. He draped himself slowly over Credence, slid the length of his shaft along his backside, over the spot that had made Credence hike up his hips and squirm. Graves flashed his teeth at the feel of it, the glorious slick drag. Pressing up, he kissed Credence's nape and mouthed the bumps of his spine, grazing stubble against his skin. 

"That's my boy," he breathed. Mouthing, nipping. Mashing his face in the dark curls to wallow in their scent. "Sweet pussycat." He started to thrust, then, hips working in tight-coiling rolls. "Sweet little pussy. Going to drive me crazy, putting your ass in the air like that." 

Credence let out a whimper. The whimper sounded uncertain enough that Graves hurried to soothe. "No, it's okay. 'S okay. You're perfect." He hardly knew what was coming out of his mouth, only that it seemed vital to say it. His breath hitched at the slide of his cock. "You feel so good. I could come just like this. You want me to come on you, baby? That okay?"

Another animal noise, almost a mew, and Credence arched back to meet him. Graves took it for the full-bodied approval it was. Then for him too there was only here, now--Credence under him, the friction, the mounting heat. Only the essentials, only the good.

When he spent himself, it pulled a groan from him, bone-deep. He smeared his hand through the spillage between them, over Credence's back where the scars used to be, before reluctantly spelling it gone. Then he sucked a drag of air and slumped to Credence's side, on the verge of falling off the sofa. With heavy limbs he pulled Credence to lie tucked against him, back to his chest. His heart went on noisily thumping, pounding the rush through his veins to the limits of his skin. He nosed dazedly at Credence's hair.

"Mercy," he muttered. "That was something." When Credence made no sound, Graves peered at him. Then he remembered the collar, and belatedly reached for its clasp.

"I'm going to take this off now," he said. "You don't have to talk. Don't have to do anything till you're ready." Unlatching the clasp, he slipped the collar free, and gently rubbed the uncovered skin. A flush lingered, circular, around Credence's neck. "There, now. Easy." 

With a wordless _Leviosa_ Graves floated the collar to the table beside the sofa. It settled next to his wand, black and silver, perfectly matched. 

For a while Credence only lay under his arm, eyes shut, lips parted. His face tipped toward Graves as their breathing eased.

"All right?" murmured Graves, when some time had passed. 

Credence gave a modest stretch, still catlike. He nodded and shouldered close, then lifted his face for a kiss. The angle was off, but neither of them minded. Graves strayed from his warm wet mouth only to kiss his eyelids, his temple and brow. 

When Credence's eyes opened, Graves saw nothing in them but contentment. No self-consciousness, none of the shame or dread of sin that sometimes dogged him, even now. A spark lit them as he looked at Graves.

"I thought you were going to feed me," he said.

Graves squinted. "Slipped my mind," he said, and Credence puffed a low laugh. His fingers moved at Graves' chest in the hint of a knead.

"Next time?" 

"If you want, sure." But when Graves pictured it--Credence crouched on all fours in the kitchen, lapping soup from a bowl on the floor--every fiber of him resisted. The floor might be fine for other cats. Credence was another story. They'd have to get some decent finger food. Shrimp, maybe, or smoked salmon. Something nice. 

He stroked a stray lock from Credence's brow. "Not when you made dinner, though. I want to be able to talk properly with the chef."

*

They Apparated to the forest and transformed there, on the path that led up the mountain. The sun hung low over the spreading oaks. It was late in the day to be venturing into the woods, but that hardly mattered when you could see in the dark. 

Graves arched his back in a leisurely stretch, working the kinks out from all four legs. He flexed his long-neglected panther's claws. Credence trotted ahead, tail held high--hoping for wild turkeys, most likely. How a housecat versus turkey altercation would go down, Graves wasn't sure, but he was ready to intervene as needed. 

The trip had been Credence's idea, and a solid one. It was good to get out of the city, out of their usual skins. Graves lifted his chin to scent the woodland air. He loped a few paces to catch up to Credence, in devouring strides, then padded along at his side. 

Credence looked up at him, eyes alight, then scampered ahead and peeked backward. The tag on his collar shone when it caught the waning sun, bright on sleek black fur. 

Eyeing it, Graves felt the nakedness of his own neck with a certain chagrin. He might not need the same things from Credence that Credence needed from him--not on the regular, anyway. Even so, he could see himself in a matching collar, flashing a matching tag. Or maybe his tag ought to be bone-shaped, bare of any inscription. If no one twigged to its meaning but Credence, that would suit him just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kinktober days 20 (Pet Play) and 22 (Collaring).
> 
> You can find me at [unicornmagic.tumblr.com](unicornmagic.tumblr.com) :3


End file.
